Two horrific shrieks.
The assailant immediately fled the scene. He did not sexually assault his victim. He did not take her purse, or remove anything from it.
The primary on the case had been former detective and now chief Rhonda Finderman. The incident had happened when I was out of the country, and I had not been involved in the initial investigation.
Rhonda’s notes, however, were thorough. I could find no fault with them. My problem with Rhonda had been her failure to bring to my attention the similarity between the Fisher murder and that of Rosemary Gaynor. But I’d been over that before, and concluded I had to carry the can for that as much as anyone else.
I had learned things about Olivia on my own.
As with Lorraine Plummer, she had been a participant in the sex games of three couples: Adam and Miriam Chalmers, Peter and Georgina Blackmore, and Clive and Liz Duncomb. Excited to meet a published author-Chalmers-she had accepted an invitation to the man’s house for dinner, where everyone else was present. While other young women who’d been brought to the home to be sexually exploited had been drugged, Olivia, at least according to Blackmore, had been a more willing participant.
That had been a month before she died.
I’d considered that one of those six had been involved in Olivia’s death, but nothing had panned out. Following Duncomb’s death, I’d brought in for questioning his wife, Liz-a real piece of work-reasoning that she could have had the same motive as her husband for killing Olivia: the fear that she might talk about what had gone on in that house.
But I didn’t believe Liz had the physical bearing to do what had been done to Olivia.
I’d briefly considered a doctor named Jack Sturgess-whom I’d once suspected in the Rosemary Gaynor murder-in Olivia’s death, but that had been a dead end as well. And Bill Gaynor didn’t look good for it, either.
And neither of them could have had anything to do with Lorraine Plummer’s death.
So I was back where I’d started.
There were other issues with the Fisher crime.
The witnesses. Or, at least, the potential witnesses. There’d been so many of them. Twenty-two, according to Rhonda Finderman’s notes.
Twenty-two people who heard Olivia Fisher’s screams.
And did nothing.
Finderman tracked down more than half of them herself. The others, perhaps motivated by guilt and a wish to get things off their chest, came forward. Some were in other areas of the park.
Two were on the bridge that spanned the falls.
Several others were in an open-window coffee shop across the street from the park. Others were strolling along the sidewalk.
It was a lovely spring evening. The days had grown longer; winter was a quickly fading memory. The sun had set, but the air remained warm enough to manage without a jacket. There was the persistent dull roar of the falls in the background, but sounds carried.
Everyone would have heard Olivia.
There was a consistency to the interviews with those who had heard her cries.
“I figured a call to 911 would already have been made.”
“I would have done something, but I assumed someone closer would have.”
“I thought it was probably just kids goofing around.”
“I didn’t hear anything after the first two screams, so I guessed it was nothing.”
“I leave this kind of thing to the professionals.”
And so on.
Promise Falls had, on that particular evening, suffered a collective lack of responsibility. A wave of not-my-problem.
For a period of time, it brought shame on the town. Promise Falls, in the words of one CNN commentator, was “the town that didn’t care.”
The town was smeared across social media. We earned our own Twitter hashtag: #brokenpromise.
We were, indeed, broken.
But as with all targets of social outrage, we were soon forgotten as the world found others. A flip tweet from a PR person about AIDS in Africa. A comedian making a joke about tsunami victims. A congressman saying blacks were lazy.
Luckily for the twenty-two people who heard but did not act, their names were never made public. Police feared there might be reprisals. But they were all here in the files.
One, I recognized. It was, coincidentally, the father of someone I’d spoken to in the last couple of hours.
Don Harwood. Father of David.
Finderman hadn’t tracked him down on her own. He came into the station to confess his sin.
“I was one of them,” he told Rhonda. “I was one of the people who did nothing.”
Finderman, in her notes, described how the man had wept as he told her what he’d heard.
“I was just getting into my car. I’d gone into the smoke shop there to look for something on the newsstand.” He had built a model train layout in his basement for his grandson, Ethan, and was looking for the latest issue of a magazine about Lionel Trains. “I found it, and when I came out, I heard the screams. They sounded like they were coming from the park, and I looked that way, and I thought about whether to do something, but I looked up and down the street and no one else was doing anything or calling anybody, so I guessed there was nothing to worry about. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
There was other fallout from the Fisher murder.
Victor Rooney started drinking heavily. He lost his job with the fire department and had been in and out of work ever since. He was racked with guilt, according to Rhonda’s notes, over not being on time to meet Olivia. I had wondered, when I started looking into the case, whether the source of his guilt might be something different.
Like, maybe he’d killed Olivia. Nine times out of ten, it was the boyfriend or the husband.
But Rhonda had checked out his alibi. She had interviewed his drinking buddies at Knight’s. He’d been there at the time of Olivia’s death.
All of which left me nowhere.
Which was why I wanted to pay another visit to Walden Fisher. To see whether there was something we’d all overlooked.
The last time I’d seen Olivia’s father, he’d been waiting at Promise Falls General for a doctor to have a look at him. Considering how many patients were up there, he might still be waiting.
If he wasn’t dead.
Last I’d heard, Angus Carlson was still at the hospital talking to people. I phoned him, aware that if he was still in the ER, the call might not get through to him.
He answered.
“Hey,” he said. He sounded subdued, which probably shouldn’t have surprised me, given what we’d all been dealing with.
“Hey,” I said back. “I need you to do something for me.”
“I can’t.”
“You haven’t even heard what it is.”
“Don’t you know?” Carlson asked.
“Know what?” I wondered if Carlson himself had taken ill.
“Some shit went down here at the hospital. I’m outside now, giving a statement.”
“What happened?”
“I shot a guy.”
“What?”
He filled me in.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. What next, right? A zombie apocalypse?”
It was a typical Carlson attempt at a joke, but I heard no levity in his voice. For maybe the first time, I felt for him.
“It sounds like you did the right thing,” I said. “And you got lucky. You brought him down without taking a life. There’s no telling what that guy might have done once he started firing.”
“Yeah, well. What was it you wanted, anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, go ahead.”
“I want to talk to Walden Fisher. He was up there in the ER when I left. You seen him lately?”
A pause. “No,” he said. “I remember when you were talking to him, but I didn’t see him around later.”